


The Sunday after it Ended

by kaige68



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Character Death, Community: 1_million_words, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 03:23:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5232068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaige68/pseuds/kaige68
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Sunday after it Ended - Arthur packs his things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sunday after it Ended

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThatwasJustaDream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatwasJustaDream/gifts).



> This actually hurt to write. 
> 
> Written for Dreamy's Slow Sated Sunday prompt - The Sunday after it Ended. And when I read the prompt, I had to write the fic.

He packed his shit. It wasn’t going to take much. It wouldn’t even fill the large duffle from the closet. Which wasn’t his duffle now, but Eames couldn’t care about that now.

_Fuck._

Arthur sat down heavily on the corner of the bed. Eames’ bed. They were never in one place long enough for anywhere to have a ‘their’ bed. It was a shame, now, in hindsight. Arthur would have liked for something to have been theirs.

He looked around the bedroom, the whole loft apartment. The windows let in light, but the view was of a brick wall. It was Eames’ kind of place. Arthur would miss it. He’d even contemplated making an offer on it, but something in him knew he’d never be able to be there long when Eames’ memories were everywhere.

Arthur snorted as he looked closer. That was it, just memories. There were things on the walls, but they were non-descript, nothing anyone would be able to trace. No photographs, no mail, no phone line, no handwriting. And yet, the place was personable. Most people wouldn’t notice that they couldn’t tell who lived there. There was personality, just not a person.

Arthur choked slightly and closed his eyes.

He took a couple of deep breaths, then stood and opened the night stand drawer that Eames had once allotted him. Paperback, empty notebook with half the pages torn out, lube, mints. He opened Eames’ drawer and removed the toys that the man’s sister didn’t need to know about. 

There was a dresser drawer with sweats, t-shirts, and underwear. Arthur moved other items around so it wasn’t glaringly empty. And there was six inches of closet that made Arthur choke up again. Six inches that he’d ceded to Arthur with his four spaced out hangers, while Eames’ part of the closet looked like he’d been binge shopping for years. Arthur filled the empty hole with Eames’ things.

He took a bad forgery of a small Margetson that he’s always hated, the corkscrew that Eames’ had _appropriated_ for Arthur’s thirty-first birthday, and… nothing. There was nothing else that belonged to Arthur; there was nothing else that said that he’d ever been there. The bag was a paltry looking half-full.

_Half-empty._ Arthur choked again.

He stuffed Eames’ ratty old pillow in. It felt desperate, Arthur felt desperate.

Arthur pulled on his baseball cap and sunglasses. He took the key off his ring and dropped it in the most cluttered drawer in the kitchen. Touching the mirror by the door, he smiled, and then mentally swore at Yusuf and Eames.

Two more ‘flats’ to go, and then he could pack up Eames’ things at Arthur’s places. He’d told Eames’ not to take that job, but the man was stubborn beyond…

Arthur closed the door behind him.


End file.
